Every Friday eats a Thursday

Fed gulls today, like that time out with Milly. Food tastes like what it eats. Feed pigs lots of stout and they come out tasting of it. Robinson Crusoe ate swan meat, what do swans eat? What would I taste like? Well, no accounting for it. And no need to know what’s in it, just eat it. Every morsel. I tried to fool the gulls with the throwaway given me. Look out below, Elijah is coming! What goes up must come down, at 32 feet per second per second bombs away! That’s the law. Did he get lifted up in a tornado? He left his clothes behind so he’ll be coming back down naked. If I threw myself down? Likely to swallow lots of water like Reuben J.’s son. Elijah will be hungry after his splashdown but plenty are well prepared to feed him. Birds wouldn’t touch the paper I threw away for them. Not a bit of it. They know what’s good for them. Spread foot and mouth disease though. Mouth and foot, foot and mouth. Mouth south. That’s how writers write. The flow of language. The stream of it. Write it and send it into the stream of life, doomed like Hamlet’s father to walk the earth.